


A City of Copper and Stone

by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Gods, Voice of a Dragon [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Markarth sucks, Misogyny, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: The expedition to Nchuand-Zel was meant to be a quick get in and get out operation with everyone in the party earning themselves academic recognition (and a lot of coin). But when Calla finds herself one of two survivors and abandoned by the other in the corrupt city of Markarth, she finds herself embroiled in the political clusterfuck that is the Reach. The Silver-Bloods expect a sheltered scholar who got lucky; they get a hardened Legion battlemage who can summon a pair of Dremora Lords with the snap of her fingers. The blood of gods and Daedric Princes runs in her veins and this is one Aurelii who has embraced her connections to Oblivion. The Silver-Bloods will never know what hit them.
Series: Blood of the Gods, Voice of a Dragon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681009
Comments: 70
Kudos: 46





	1. The Lost Expedition

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Yes, another AU. ‘The Lost Expedition’ goes a little differently because Callaina’s with them.

“By the gods, Calla, was that necessary?”

She pointed to the dagger dropped by the Forsworn in his dying paroxysms as the woman who’d nearly been stabbed in the back – red-haired, Nibenese build but Colovian beak of a nose – turned around in horror. “I imagine the woman he almost killed would agree it was.”

Staubin shuddered. “And we were assured this was the safest city in the Reach.”

Calla snorted. “It’s the _only_ city in the Reach. Every other settlement is a village or redoubt.”

One of the guards wearing the city’s forest-green tabard approached them. “Everything’s under control. Move along now.”

Alethius, the Quaestor in charge of the expedition’s military contingent, raised an eyebrow. “An attempted murder in the streets is hardly-“

“We understand,” Erj said quickly, interrupting the Legionary. “We’ll just be leaving now.”

“Of course, of course,” Staubin agreed hastily, making shooing motions. “Nchuand-Zel waits on no mage.”

Calla let the four Bretons and three Cyrods go ahead as the red-haired Cyrod approached her.

“By the gods, that man nearly killed me. You saved my life. Thank you. Here, I was going to bring this to my sister, but I think you should have it,” she said, pressing a silver and emerald necklace into Calla’s hands.

“It’s alright. I thought the Forsworn had been put down,” the mage told her quietly.

“The Jarl wishes,” muttered the redhead. “But there’s been murders for the past two decades, supposedly by the Forsworn. The General thinks-“

Her expression grew stony as she clammed up. “Never mind what I said. Thank you again. You better join your Breton friends before the Hold guards take exception to your presence.”

 _Legion agent,_ Calla thought as she murmured a thanks and returned to the group of Bretons and Cyrods clustered just up the street. _That was a targeted murder._

“-Most corrupt city in Skyrim, barring Riften,” Erj was telling Stromm in Breton as she rejoined them. “What’s more egregious about the situation is that the Silver-Bloods are blatant supporters of Ulfric Stormcloak and reportedly great allies of his wife Sigdrifa Stormsword.”

“You being appalled about political and economic corruption is a new one,” Calla noted dryly in the same language.

“Oh, I skim here and there, and a bribe goes a long way in certain situations,” Erj confessed without shame. “But Markarth’s run by an idiot who’s beholden to the traitors who seek to overthrow him.”

“So it’s a Dwemer-flavoured Riften then,” Krag noted sardonically. “We’re here to explore Nchuand-Zel, not get involved in the local politics. Let the Nords kill each other and we might be rid of a race of obnoxious brutes.”

“ _I’m_ a Nord,” Calla reminded him.

“I thought you were a Redguard,” Krag countered, his eyes narrowed.

“My father was the Redguard, my mother a Kreathling Nord,” Calla corrected.

“Enough,” Staubin said wearily. “Let’s introduce ourselves to Calcelmo and get his permission to explore Nchuand-Zel. We have a lot of work ahead of us, but the rewards will be worth it. None of us will lack academic credibility ever again and the College will give us the recognition we deserve.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Erj under his breath. “I’m selling my share to Telvanni mage-lords and buying myself a castle.”

Understone Keep was the local Jarl’s home and the centre of Markarth’s politics. Calla was treated to one of the Silver-Bloods berating the local Priest of Arkay for not allowing the local Nords access to their revered dead. Tall and armoured in steel, he had to be Thongvor, the nominal head of the family. From everything she heard, Thonar did all the dirty work and Thongvor embodied what ‘honour’ the Silver-Bloods had.

Calcelmo was a crotchety Altmer whose parchment-yellow skin was seamed with lines and his hair silvered from age while his nephew Aicantar had the gleaming golden skin and vivid eyes of youth. “I can’t let you have access to Nchuand-Zel or my museum yet,” he told Staubin with a sigh. “One’s been overtaken by a giant spider the local workers are calling ‘Nimhe’-“

“Child of the Brood-Queen’,” Calla automatically interpreted, earning a glance from the ancient court wizard. “They believe it to be touched by Namira.”

“Yes, I can see why the local Reachfolk would draw that conclusion. It’s killed two guards and a worker already,” Calcelmo mused thoughtfully. “You’re familiar with local superstitions?”

“My grandmother was from the Reach,” Calla confirmed. “That was part of the reason Staubin brought me along.”

“That and she’s the best battlemage of her year-group,” Staubin said. “The spider, however giant it is, should be no trouble for a group of sorcerers from the College of Whispers.”

“If you can clear it, you can access my museum, so long as you don’t touch anything,” promised Calcelmo. “I still don’t recommend going beyond the excavations without twice as many soldiers and mages to hand. Nchuand-Zel was a military hub of the Dwemer civilisation against the aggression of the Direnni…”

“So twice as many automatons,” Calla mused. “I’m assuming Nimhe’s an oversized frostbite spider?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Aicantar told her.

“Staubin, as a Nord, I’m resistant to a frostbite’s venom,” Calla pointed out. “I’ll take point on Nimhe.”

“Be my guest,” Erj said dryly. “I’m not keen to be a spider’s breakfast.”

In the end, Calla went by herself, as her Whispers colleagues were fundamentally cowards in the face of overt danger and killing giant spiders for free wasn’t covered by Alethius’ contract. That was fine by her, as it allowed her to utilise the full variety of spells she knew, some of which would raise eyebrows even in an educational institution dedicated to Conjuration magic. As the spider and its brood twitched in their death-throes, she carefully harvested the venom glands for later use and then used a pickaxe to clear away the spider-webs obscuring the great entrance to Nchuand-Zel.

“That was quicker than I expected,” Calcelmo observed as she returned to his laboratory with several spider eggs and some silk as proof.

“I spent eight years as a Legion battlemage,” Calla admitted calmly. “So we can access your museum?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll find some new and interesting insights into the Dwemer culture even without accessing Nchuand-Zel proper.” Calcelmo rubbed his hands gleefully. “Pity you’re not for hire. I could use some better security than the lackwits Igmund assigns to my museum.”

“I’m contracted to Staubin’s expedition,” she told him. “If Nchuand-Zel’s unavailable, there are several Dwemer ruins in the Reach we can investigate.”

“Exactly!” Calcelmo waved them away. “Have fun exploring my museum. Don’t steal anything. The guards _will_ kill you.”

Staubin, of course, had no intention of leaving Nchuand-Zel alone. It was the safest of the Dwemer ruins to reach, by dint of being under Markarth, and most of them had studied the deep elves’ technology and Conjuration extensively. Alethius and his men only cared for their cut of the spoils. So after a night’s sleep and meal, they were going to enter the city before Calcelmo’s excavations began anew.

The next morning, while Calcelmo was still asleep and Aicantar breakfasting with other officers of the Jarl’s court, they trooped towards the entrance of Nchuand-Zel. Erj shuddered at the remains of the spiders she’d killed yesterday. Calla decided not to enlighten him that the twisted Falmer who oftentimes dwelt in Skyrim’s Dwemer ruins domesticated the smaller ones as pets and guards. He’d learn soon enough.

What followed, in Legion terms, was a clusterfuck. There was a horde of Falmer in Nchuand-Zel and what had been a treasure-hunting expedition quickly turned into a race for survival and the controls to the ancient city’s automated defences. Curiosity killed Stromm, stupidity killed Krag, greed killed Erj and incompetence killed Staubin. By the time she staggered into the control room, only she and Alethius were alive to activate the defences.

It still took several hours for the automatons to kill all the Falmer before it was safe for them to retreat along the path they’d come. Calla used the time to heal herself and the Quaestor, curse her own stupidity in not taking command of the entire expedition, and review the spells necessary to lay each of her colleagues to rest after using the corpses of the Falmer to carry what loot could allay Calcelmo’s wrath at being disobeyed.

“We’ll need to sell what we can, so the families have something as compensation,” she told Alethius, rubbing at her brow as the Centurions kept on killing Falmer below.

The Quaestor shrugged. “They knew the risks. Few in the Anvil Third have dependents.”

That was true. Staubin had hired five soldiers from the Anvil Third because they were cheap and expendable. Sentimentality wasn’t a trait encouraged by the College of Whispers. Calla, a veteran of both the Third and the College, had to wonder why she cared so much.

Between the raised corpses and the Conjured Daedra, they were able to collect quite a bit of loot after wrecking the last of the Centurions by Telekinetically shoving them into the water. She gathered the four mages together, doused them in dwarven oil, and set them alight with the most powerful fire spell she knew after murmuring the prayers for the dead. Perhaps only the skeevers and bugs lived in Nchuand-Zel, because just about everything else was dead, and Calla felt obscurely sickened by the sheer waste of it.

She wasn’t surprised to be met by Aicantar and Calcelmo at the door of the excavations. “I knew you’d go in regardless,” the old court wizard said with a sigh. “You two are the only survivors?”

“Yeah,” Calla admitted wearily. “I should have taken command from Staubin. There was a horde of Falmer until we activated the automated defences. After that, the automatons did most of the work, and then we finished off those. Plenty of things to study, even if we’ve taken our share to pay for the dead soldiers’ kin.”

“I have a bounty for Dwemer goods,” he said with another sigh. “Moth and his sister Ghorza will pay for any ingots, arms and armour you found. There should be plenty to send to the families of the slain.”

It took the Jarl’s guards a week to salvage everything from Nchuand-Zel and they claimed half the goods as ‘taxes’. Calla didn’t bother arguing with them because she really didn’t want to draw Stormcloak attention to herself. Not with who was apparently running the show over in Windhelm.

After Alethius was paid off and given money to take back to the dead Legionaries’ families (which she knew he’d deliver because she told him she’d cursed it if he tried to keep it for himself), she found herself alone in a city of ruins and corruption with a thousand septims to her name. Returning to Cyrodiil would be problematic because of the closed border and the explanations she’d have to make to the College of Whispers, unless she brought back something worthwhile to stave off the inquisitors.

Calla sighed and turned for the inn. At least she had the cash to travel to a better city.


	2. The Forsworn Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, war crimes, corpse desecration, cannibalism and imprisonment. The Forsworn Conspiracy and The Taste of Death will go differently because Calla has half a brain and a nice shiny spine.

“Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets. Are you all right? Did you see what happened?”

Calla was nursing a cup of piss-weak ale when the young Reachman mentioned the marketplace incident of the other day. It was going to take a few days to turn her share of the Nchuand-Zel loot into coin, even with the guards (and by extension the Jarl and the Silver-Bloods) taking their cut, and so she’d reluctantly paid for a room at the Silver-Blood Inn. The second-best one, as Margret the Imperial agent had hired the best one, but it was still better than a pallet on Markarth’s cold stone floors.

“I must have missed it, sorry,” she murmured in response. She was _not_ going to get involved in local politics.

“You don't have to say sorry to me. I just hope the Eight bring us more peace in the future.” He stumbled against her, shoving something in her hands. “Oh, I think you dropped this. Some kind of note. Looks important.”

She ignored it and him until he left. She wasn’t getting involved. When he’d left the inn, she threw it into the fire.

The next day, she went down to the smelting district to sell ingots to Ghorza on the suggestion of Moth, who’d already paid her generously for the Daedra heart she’d given him, and to see if the local alchemist would want the Falmer ears, chaurus eggs and spider eggs from Nchuand-Zel. Even though Staubin, Erj, Krag and Stromm hadn’t been respected members of the College, they were still part of the Whispers, and the senior mages were going to demand hard answers – or generous compensation – for their deaths. It never looked good when only one person was left standing after a research project gone wrong, even if the others had been greedy, complacent or downright stupid. Sentimentality wasn’t a virtue among Conjurers, but certain things were still expected of them, and throwing your colleagues to the Daedra was a big sin in the Whispers’ eyes.

_Only because half of them would do it if they could get away with it,_ she thought sourly as she approached the smithy by the water-wheel. _And the other half are Daedric cultists._

“I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time,” said the young man from yesterday, stepping in front of her. “You're an outsider. You're dangerous-looking. You'll do.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Calla asked him bluntly. “I don’t need trouble with the Silver-Bloods or the Jarl. Once my cash from the Nchuand-Zel expedition is in, I’m leaving Markarth.”

“You mightn’t give a shit, but there’s people in Markarth who remember the face of Sigdrifa Stormsword, and you look sort of like her,” he retorted grimly. “If I, a smelter worker, noticed it – you can bet your arse the Silver-Bloods have, especially since you’re one of two survivors of a Dwemer ruins expedition gone wrong.”

Calla ground her teeth. “What do you want?”

“You want answers? Well so do I. So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.” His tattooed face writhed with frustration. “This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.”

“Why do you care so much?” she countered.

“It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far, and then I got married. Have a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me. Asking me ‘Why’?”

There was a pattern emerging she really didn’t like the smell of. “First a non-Nord landowner and now an attempted murder on an Imperial spy. Why the fuck would the Forsworn target rivals and enemies of the Silver-Bloods?”

“You understand,” he whispered. “Please… I have some gold. It’ll be enough for you to leave.”

“I have gold,” Calla said tersely. “Use your coin to get you and your wife out of here. That’s what I’m planning to do. But if they’ve noticed my resemblance to the Shieldbitch, they’ll have noticed you’re talking to me. I can defend myself. I doubt you can.”

He blanched. “You aren’t serious!”

“I am. Now get out of here. I need to sell some things.”

The young man slunk off and she breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully that would be the end of that.

Ghorza gladly paid a couple hundred septims for two dozen pieces of Dwemer scrap, explaining that her apprentice Tacitus needed the practice of melting them down, and Calla was looking for the Hag’s Cure when the sound of a whip cracking caught her attention. A scrawny smelter worker overloaded with slag was being tormented by the Orcish overseer by having the whip cracked at his feet – and judging by the welts and bruises, fists to flesh might have been involved earlier in the day.

“Poor bastard,” Ghorza said, pausing in her work. “Omlaug’s half-starved but Mulush – and by extension the Silver-Bloods – expect the work of two men from him. The civil war’s increased production but the Silver-Bloods won’t pay more.”

Calla ground her teeth again. It wasn’t her business, it wasn’t her business-

When Mulush’s whip snaked around Omlaug’s ankle and the Reachman cried out in pain, she used Telekinesis to haul the weapon from the Orc’s grip as she cursed him out in the language of the strongholds.

“You want more work from them, you need to feed them more, dammit!” she finished her tirade with. “Lift that whip to him again and I’ll have a Dremora shove it down your throat.”

Mulush rubbed his stinging hand with a grimace. “Try and tell Thonar that. He’s the one who gives me the money for rations.”

“So stop skimming from the top and give them decent food!” Ghorza bellowed from her forge in Orsimer.

The overseer looked between the woman and the womer, grimacing again, but wisely chose to say nothing. With a flex of Alteration magic, Calla crumbled the whip into rot and ruin, and threw the remains into the mill-race.

Omlaug caught up to her just before she entered the Hag’s Cure. “Thanks, I really mean it,” he said fervently, trying to press a bag of coin into her hands. “You didn’t have to-“

“Keep your damned coin and think about moving somewhere else,” she answered wearily. “The other Holds aren’t pleasure palaces but you’re not being whipped while choking on ashes either.”

“Eltrys said you were a strange woman,” Omlaug observed as he tucked away the coin purse. “I don’t know if the blessing of the old gods means anything to you, but

beannachtaí na láimhe clé agus na láimhe deise duit.”

“Blessings of the left and right to you too,” she murmured in automatic response.

Omlaug smiled. “Bothela’s my granma. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a fair bargain.”

“Thanks.”

Bothela’s shop, aside from being made of stone, reminded Calla of her own granma’s shop back in Bruma so much that it gave her a pang. “A little bit of old Reach magic can cure whatever ills you,” she called out as Calla entered.

“’Every herb is medicinal if you know how to use it right. Some cure your sicknesses and others cure the people who sicken you’,” Calla quoted dryly as she approached the counter. A young woman, fine-boned and dark-eyed, was mixing herbs in an alcove as a Hag with all the requisite tattoos of an elder tended to the counter.

Bothela grinned as the girl gasped. “You’ve had some Reach teaching, girl!”

Calla decided to be honest. “My granma’s Catriona of Glenmoril. She had the raising of me in part after the Great War.”

“Ah. That must have been during her exile after the Markarth Incident.” Bothela sighed. “I didn’t know one of her sons managed to sire a lass before Dengeir got them killed, but then I haven’t spoken to her since… well… the Markarth Incident.”

The girl paused in her work. “I don’t think she’s from a son, Bothela. Do you remember that Redguard who gave me a hand a few months ago?”

“The Deartháir Dorcha? Handsome he was, but a bit roguish for my liking-“ Bothela paused. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“I’ll conduct my business and leave,” Calla promised quietly. “I know my mother’s about as popular as a Vigilant of Stendarr at a religious festival around here, but I was involved in the Nchuand-Zel business and have been told Falmer ears, chaurus eggs and spider eggs sell quite well…”

“They do,” Bothela confirmed. “I won’t throw you out, girl, just warn you to watch out for the Silver-Bloods. They’ve funded your mother and Ulfric for years and Thonar’s often handled ‘problems’ the Stormsword couldn’t. Bryn, my grandson who lives in the east, tells me she swore to Ulfric’s father she was a virgin Shieldmaiden when she married that loud-mouthed cunt.”

Calla grimaced. “I’m trying to keep my head low. But that tattooed smelter worker wants me to investigate the murders – which probably weren’t done by Forsworn-“

“They were,” Bothela said softly. “Someone of very high rank who was part of Madanach’s court is issuing these orders and our poor folk are so desperate to be free they obey without question.”

“Why are the Forsworn killing Silver-Blood enemies?” Calla asked in spite of herself.

“I’ve wondered that myself,” the Hag said softly. “I’ll give you five hundred septims for whatever you’ve got, lass. You did Omlaug a favour. But take the coin and leave. Go to Dawnstar. Your father, if he’s the Redguard who helped Muiri avenge herself, lives there with other Dark Brothers. The Silver-Bloods will kill you and Sigdrifa will claim to the Thief-God Talos that she never kin-slayed in her day of reckoning.”

“I’m waiting on some coin,” Calla answered. “I can’t leave for a few days.”

Bothela shook her head, handed over the coin, and sketched a blessing of Nocturnal before Calla left the Hag’s Cure.

When she went up to Understone Keep to check with Raerek how the coin was coming, the local Priest of Arkay stopped her. “You’re that woman who killed Nimhe and survived Nchuand-Zel, right?”

“Yes. What of it?” she asked in exasperation.

“I need you to check the Hall of the Dead. I saw you the other day and you heard Thongvor chewing me out over it.” The Niben-man shuddered. “I’ve locked it up because… someone’s been eating the dead.”

Calla, versed in the theology of the Reach, damn well knew that cannibalism was part of the traditional burial rites of the hill-clans as a means of honouring Namira and returning the deceased’s strength to their family. “Look, there’s traditionalists among the Reachfolk who believe they need to nibble on their beloved dead to help lay them to rest. It’s moderately disgusting, but look the other way. They won’t eat you, I’m fairly sure, unless you try to intervene.”

The Cyrod blanched. “That’s disgusting!”

“Well, yes, but Bosmer are also cannibals and for years the Empire just kept their mouths shut about it. Do what the Septims did.”

He shuddered again. “But it’s not the Breton dead who are being eaten. It’s the Nord dead.”

“…That’s fucked up. And probably involving a Namiran cult.” Calla pulled back her sleeves to show the twining tattoos of a Whispers mage. “Not my cup of tea, obviously, but most of the College is well-versed in Daedric lore.”

“Please. Thongvor’s ready to kill me,” he pleaded.

Calla muttered a curse. “Fine.”

Tombs weren’t unknown to Calla, grave-dust and mould and cold stone-scent, but underneath the familiar reek she could detect spilt blood and steel-oil. “Look,” she said into the silent darkness. “I couldn’t give two shits about who or what you eat, but you’re pissing off Thongvor Silver-Blood, and you know that prick will vent his spleen on the local Reachfolk. Why don’t you go chow down on some draugr or a few bandits on the road instead the Nord honoured dead?”

“Not many would walk blindly into a crypt, smelling of magicka and blood, but not fear. I feel the hunger inside of you. Gnawing at you. You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls. It's all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten.”

It was a woman’s voice, sweet and seductive, and Calla shuddered.

“You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren't you? A brother or sister had died? An accident, of course. Then the hunger set in. Curiosity. What's the harm in just one bite? It's okay, now. You've found a friend who understands you. You can let go of your guilt.”

“I’m not a cannibal, though I’m conversant with traditional Reach funeral customs.” Calla sighed. “Look, I don’t want a fight. I just want to collect my coin and go. Please piss off and find another meal. Mead-soaked Nords probably aren’t the tastiest anyway, given it’s all flavoured like piss.”

“You’d be the Whispers woman, the one with the face of Sigdrifa Stormsword, who survived Nimhe and Nchuand-Zel,” the woman observed, stepping from the shadows. Fine-boned and short like all Bretons, she eschewed the complex tattoos of a hill-clan warrior for the simpler ones of an urban Reachwoman, but her armour was well-tended and well-made.

“Calla mac Catriona,” Calla said with another sigh. “Every minute some idiot tries to drag me into their problems increases the time I have to wait to collect my pay and leave this place.”

“Eola mac Saoirse,” greeted the Namiran with a smile. “I understand where you’re coming from. My usual feasting place has been overrun by draugr and… well, since the Nords suck from the teat of the Reach, I thought I’d suck from the teat of their dead to strengthen myself.”

Calla raised her hands. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ve got enough Daedric associations of my own. I really don’t need to get involved with Namira – no offence.”

“None taken. Though I suspect you’re more familiar with cannibalism than you’ll admit.” Eola pursed her lips. “Help me clear out the feasting place and I’ll stop eating the dead.”

“Fine,” Calla groaned. “But not until I leave Markarth.”

“Of course.” Eola paused. “Which Daedric Prince do you serve? There’s a sacred place to Molag Bal if you’re a necromancer-“

“My paternal great-great-grandmother is the Madgoddess aspect of Sheogorath. It’s given me a knack for Conjuration. My father apparently works for Sithis and I’ve had some dealings with Hircine through my granma Catriona,” Calla interrupted. “I have nothing to do with Molag Bal and his ilk.”

“Wise. He’s a fickle and cruel god.” Eola offered her hand and Calla shook it. “I’ll meet you at Reachcliff Cave. Be careful while you’re here, cousin. The Silver-Bloods won’t take kindly to your existence.”

“So they keep on telling me,” Calla muttered when she was gone.

It was the work of a few minutes to tell the Priest of Arkay that the cannibal was gone. But as she headed towards Raerek and the Mournful Throne, something struck her from behind, sending her into darkness with a burst of pain.


	3. No One Escapes Cidhna Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, misogyny, crimes and mentions of genocide, war crimes, cannibalism, child abuse and child abandonment.

Madanach mac Feredach, the King in Rags, had learned patience in the long dark years of his imprisonment. He thought he’d known patience before in the rise to power among the hill-clans before the taking of Markarth, but he soon realised that he and his supporters had been impatient – too impatient. The Empire, ever the cowards, used the Stormcloaks to break the Reach anew and then betrayed them to the Thalmor. If Ulfric and Sigdrifa hadn’t wrought such breath-taking cruelties upon his people for claiming what they clamoured for, he might have reached out to them as fellow wronged parties. That path was closed to them, so Madanach bowed his head to Thonar’s yoke and slew the Silver-Bloods’ enemies for a stay of execution. For a long time it had worked. Until a god-blooded sorceress of their clan came to Markarth and thrown a boulder into the churning politics of the city by mere dint of her existence. He was only surprised that it took so long for Thongvor to have her thrown into Cidhna Mine.

“Well, well. Look at you. Your kinsfolk have turned you into an animal, Nord. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?”

In the uncertain light of the single lamp he was allowed, Calla’s pupils flashed red-green like a predator’s, no doubt invoking the Night Eye spell. From elbow to wrist on both forearms ran intricate tattoos in the bastardised Daedric script the College of Whispers used among itself, detailing her magical prowess and degrees of training if he was translating them correctly, and across her chest above her breasts from shoulder to shoulder was inscribed the details of her ancestry in the Reach Daedric dialect in Catriona’s forceful hand. By the purple-black glow in her loosely cupped hands, she looked ready to cast, and Madanach couldn’t fault her. So he held up his fists, crossed at the wrists in the sign of non-aggression. He needed her and she needed him, at least in the short term.

Calla returned the gesture, magic spurting from her clenched fingers as it died, but she didn’t relax and neither did he. “Did you arrange for this?” she asked flatly.

“No,” he admitted honestly. “I’d intended for you to see the atrocities of the Silver-Bloods for a day or two before my agents would have contacted you. You are, despite the unsentimental nature of a Whispers alumnus, most concerned with a sense of justice.”

“If I’d investigated the murders at Eltrys’ request, I’d have wound up here sooner,” Calla pointed out. “You do know the young and hopeless are dying fruitlessly, right?”

Madanach nodded, closing his eyes. “I know. But every time I tried the Black Sacrament, it never worked, and Thonar was growing suspicious. I had to rely on my own people, not the Bráithreachas Dorcha.”

“Just after the Great War, most of them were massacred, and I’m given to understand that there’s no more Listener, only two rival Sanctuaries – one of whom is run by a failed Shieldmaiden who supports my mother,” she confirmed grimly. “But that’s not the immediate problem. I saw the passage just outside your little private cell. I intend to use it. If you ask nicely, I’ll leave the door open for you.”

“Your freedom? Yes. But even if you were to escape Cidhna Mine, your name would still be stained with all that blood.” Madanach smiled sadly as her eyes narrowed. “Poor Eltrys or some other hapless bastard was killed and the murder pinned on you by now. Thonar’s been doing this for years without interference and he’s a man who likes to walk the well-worn path.”

“I should have listened to Bothela and Eola,” she sighed. “Well, that’s what I get for being greedy and wanting my share of the Nchuand-Zel spoils. I suppose Thonar stuffed me in here as to claim it all and do the Shieldbitch a favour all at once.”

Madanach chuckled at her derisive description of her mother. “I didn’t say it was all over, my girl. But… in order to partake of my passage and plans, you need to become one of us. I see your granma had a hand in raising you by your tattoos. You are of the Reach, and in these degenerate times, you must serve and suffer as we have done. Go to Braig, tell him I sent you, and listen to his story. On your return, I’ll explain some more.”

“If I wasn’t a Nord and you weren’t my kin, I’d just Conjure a couple Dremora Lords and kill you for the key to that passage, then forge a confession in your hand from the writing I saw you doing to hand over to Raerek with a nice parcel of transmuted ore from this mind,” she told him candidly. “If I worded it properly, I could give Igmund an excuse to execute the Silver-Bloods and expropriate their holdings for the Jarl’s treasury.”

Now he was outright grinning at the girl. “You’re Catriona’s granddaughter, alright. So why aren’t you doing it?”

“Because I am a Nord and I am not a kinslayer and I am not my mother, because that’s what she’d do with a praise be to Talos as justification,” Calla answered. “I will speak to Braig and then we shall see.”

“That’s all I ask, my girl,” Madanach said softly.

She didn’t return until several hours later, when what passed for morning had come to Cidhna Mine. “I talked to Braig and a few others. I knew my mother was a cunt, but the absolute level of her cuntery could only be exceeded by Talos, the god of cunts himself.”

Madanach chuckled grimly, then grew sombre. “Imagine hearing a story like that, over and over. Each time a different family. Each time a different injustice. Your meddling above ground reminded me of how removed I've been from the struggle. My men and I should be in the hills, fighting.”

“Killing Nords, you mean, until the Silver-Bloods oppress more Reachfolk in retaliation, in which case leads to more Nord deaths, so on and so forth,” Calla pointed out.

“This was our land. We were here first. Then the Nords came and put chains on us. Forbid us from worshipping our gods. Some of us refused to bow. We knew the old ways would lead us back to having a kingdom of our own. That is who we are. The Forsworn. Criminals in our own lands. And we will cut a bloody hole into the Reach until we are free,” Madanach corrected her.

“At what cost? Whoever wins the bloody civil war in Skyrim will just send wave after wave of battle-hardened veterans against the hill-clans until the Reach is once more drowned in blood,” she countered. “I’ve served in the Legion and I can guess at the soldiers my mother’s trained. They consider the Reachfolk little better than vermin, Madanach. They’ll do as they did, only ten times worse and until nothing of the clans remain but a few carvings and bogey stories to scare lowlander children with.”

“You’re such an expert in genocide, are you?” he retorted, temper rising in spite of his resolve.

“Yes, because that’s what the Thalmor have been doing in my native Bruma for the past twenty fucking years. The Blades, wiped out because of a madman’s folly. The Akaviri traditions destroyed, the culture that lasted over two thousand years little more than wind blowing through ruins. The Blades cut a bloody hole in the Jeralls and the Empire let the Dominion hunt them down one by one.” Calla wiped at her eyes, tears streaking the dirt and grime on her olive-bronze cheeks. “I’m one of the last Akaviri Nords and probably the only one who remembers something of our culture. The other three clans are Colovian and Imperialised. It’s just window dressing and a fancy dagger to most of them.”

Madanach closed his eyes. “If you’re expecting me to weep for Talos worshippers, I won’t.”

“If Talos were in front of me, I’d spit in his divine fucking face myself,” she said bitterly. “There’s more lowlander Nords than Reachfolk, and most of those Nords have been controlling the narrative of the Reach for decades, so most of the surrounding nations believe them over the hill-clans.”

“So you’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“If you’re half the leader Granma says you are, you’ll figure something once we’re outside of this bloody place.” Calla passed her hand over her face, banishing tears and grief alike. “So what must I do now?”

“Kill the snitch Grisvar,” Madanach told her bluntly. “You must show yourself willing to commit cold-blooded murder, as we have, to be counted among the Forsworn. Use the Dremora to do it. That’ll count for much with the others and establish you as a Hag in your own right.”

“I’m not a Hag. My connections to the Daedric Princes are by blood,” was her answer.

“My dear girl, that makes you a god-blooded Hag,” Madanach told her. “If you want to travel anywhere in the Reach, you need to prove yourself one of us. Hag is a title, not an age among us.”

She nodded and left the cell. Shortly after, the raspy voice of a Dremora and Grisvar’s scream broke the early morning quiet, followed by exclamations among the other Forsworn. Madanach picked himself up, tucked his journal in his pants, and went outside to address his followers.

“My brothers, we have been here long enough. It's time to leave Cidhna Mine and continue our fight against the Nords. Through this gate, just beside my quarters, is a tunnel. A tunnel that leads right through the old Dwarven ruins of Markarth, into the city. Well, what do you say, my brothers?”

“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!” they cried in unison.

After a short journey through the tunnel and a couple minor tussles, they reached the door that Madanach saw, to his pleasure, secured by his niece Kaie and the Namiran High Priestess Eola.

“Madanach. I've brought what you asked for,” Kaie reported, glancing at Calla with a raised eyebrow.

“Kaie, this is your cousin Calla, Catriona’s granddaughter,” he introduced with a smile. “She can summon a Dremora who can rip out a Nord’s spine through his mouth. Calla, this is Kaie, the best Nightblade in the Reach. She can cut a Nord’s throat so fast he’ll be dead before he hits the ground.”

“Graphic,” Eola noted approvingly. “When I saw Thongvor and his goons knock you out in the Jarl’s own hall, Calla, I alerted certain friends of mine who have let the entirety of Markarth know that the Silver-Bloods falsely imprisoned a Nord of royal lowlander ancestry who has made herself popular among the commoners. Igmund’s frothing at the mouth and demanding your release but Thongvor’s playing stupid.”

“Thonar, on the other hand, was already gathering the guard with the excuse of ‘purging a prisoner rebellion’,” Kaie added grimly. “We better hurry before he and his goons arrive.”

“Give me a moment.” Madanach pulled out his journal, summoned a bound quill, and wrote a quick note that he handed to Calla. “There’s your confession, my dear girl. Sounds like you’ve made a few friends in Markarth.”

She looked startled. “Thank you, but…”

“Thonar will want to kill me before I reveal embarrassing information,” Madanach said cheerfully. “He’s a compulsive diarist, so I’ll see if we can give you his journal.”

The girl began to smile evilly. “Leave Thongvor to me. I mightn’t give much of a damn about the Reach’s politics – publicly – but I think the Silver-Bloods owe me a little wergild.”

“And here I was hoping you’d have his spine ripped from his mouth,” Eola said, disappointed.

“It’s considered tacky to summon Dremora publicly in the College of the Whispers,” Calla explained. “I want him to enjoy this. I’m not fond of the Empire, but they’re not my mother and her friends.”

Madanach nodded. “Agreed. And… I’ll think on what you said, Calla. A bloody uprising didn’t work the first time around. Maybe we need to do this a little differently.”

“Give Tullius Ulfric’s head on a silver platter and he’d practically give you the Jagged Crown of Nord myth,” she pointed out. “Rikke might choke on it a bit, but she’s a Shieldmaiden too.”

“That’s something to work with,” he said with a smile. “Give us a moment to wreak bloody vengeance, then sneak out. That’ll let you keep a bit of public distance from us.”

“Happy hunting.” She inclined her head slightly. “Blessings of the left and the right to you, kinsman.”

“And to you, my girl, and to you.” Madanach took a deep breath and took the armour from Kaie’s hands. “Let us show the Silver-Bloods who the true masters of the Reach are.”

And they did.


	4. The Heart of Dibella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of rape/non-con, genocide, war crimes, cannibalism and imprisonment. Calla’s definitely got a bit of Sica in her, only not quite as selfish and vengeful.

“Madanach has been found to be the true murderer of Markarth. On behalf of the city, I apologize for your wrongful imprisonment,” spoke the balding, long-chinned specimen who served as Jarl of the Reach. Madanach had more charisma in his dirt and rags than Igmund Hrolfdirsson had in his silks, gold and furs. There was petulance and wilful blindness in the slouch of his posture on the Mournful Throne. Calla was beginning to suspect that most of the Imperial-loyal Jarls had been chosen for pliability and obedient nature, not talent for statecraft. No wonder Ulfric was gaining traction in certain Holds.

“So what’s going to be done about Thongvor?” she asked bluntly, tucking her hands into her wide sleeves. Kaie had found and returned everything confiscated from her, including the comfortable Colovian robes worn by mages from Cyrodiil’s north.

“He’s claiming he was acting on good faith from what his brother told him,” Raerek, the Steward, reported with a sigh. “Because he’s a Thane – the only one left to the Reach – it’s hard to put his word to the test. Thongvor always looked the other way on Thonar’s actions.”

“Sounds like Ulfric and Sigdrifa,” Calla mused. “Why don’t you have more of these Thanes?”

“The requirements can be difficult to achieve. You must be in good standing with the populace, own property within the Hold, and have performed a great service for the Jarl,” Raerek told her frankly. “I should mention that you’re well on the way for the first, what with the various favours you’ve done for the hoi polloi.”

“What about Nepos the Nose or Whatshisname up at Karthwasten? You’d probably settle the Reachfolk down if they had a couple nobles of their own,” Calla pointed out. “People who are disenfranchised are discontented, Jarl Igmund. Short of literal genocide, you can’t oppress a population entirely. Find one or two moderate Reachfolk of Madanach’s nobility, give ‘em titles, and give your subjects a voice.”

Igmund bristled. “You’re so familiar with ruling, are you?”

“I’m an Akaviri Nord from Bruma whose granma came from the Reach,” Calla countered. “I know _plenty_ about losing one’s culture and voice.”

Igmund snorted. “Find me a Reachman who isn’t a heathen savage and I’ll consider it. Dismissed.”

Calla ground her teeth as she bowed and stalked down the stairs. It would still take a few days to turn her share of the Nchuand-Zel spoils into liquid cash now that Igmund had decided to give her a quarter of what his guards had taken. The sooner she got the dust of this place from her feet – and far away from Cidhna Mine – the better.

“Thick as a brick, isn’t he?” Eola observed from the shadows of Understone Keep’s porch.

“Yeah. He’s got the lowlander racism, rusted on,” Calla agreed with a sigh. “Thongvor’s covered by his Thaneship. Raerek took care to point out I was well on my way to achieving the first of the three requirements.”

“Oh, that old bastard’s been trying to get _someone_ into the Thane’s other seat for years,” Eola confirmed. “If you were planning to hang around…”

“I’m too exposed. I can only imagine how my mother’s going to react when she finds out her long-lost daughter’s an Imperial battlemage who can Conjure Dremora.” They walked past the bulk of the Treasure House, where one of Thongvor’s goons favoured her with a filthy glance. “If I didn’t need this coin to get to somewhere like Winterhold…”

“Why not just head back to High Rock or Cyrodiil?” Eola suggested.

“Because explaining to the senior mages why I was the only one to survive – other than Alethius – Nchuand-Zel would be difficult if I stick to the truth of the others being fucking idiots,” Calla admitted with a sigh. “We have less restrictions on our study than the Synod, but the College of Whispers has very strict rules on how we must behave with each other. Given my family history and connections, they could come to the fairly legitimate conclusion I’d stuffed those four into Oblivion either to save myself or placate a Daedric Prince.”

“Practical,” Eola noted. “So you can’t go back?”

“Not without something worth their while. I should have taken command of the expedition, so in a way, my neglect…” Calla sighed and shook her head. “Gods above, Falmer are fucking horrible critters, they really are.”

“Do you know the story behind them?” They were now at the marketplace where everything began. Calla was going to fulfil her promise to Eola to clear out the Namiran shrine since she had to wait a few days anyway.

“They were driven underground by Ysgramor’s lot, right?”

“So my mother says. The thing is, they used to be… well, mer like the Altmer or the Dunmer. But the Dwemer did something to them that not only corrupted them into those _things_ , but actually changed the fundamental nature of their souls.”

Calla glanced at Eola. “That sounds ominous.”

“As you no doubt know, sentient creatures have black souls.” Eola waved to the Reachman feeding meat to a pair of war hounds. Calla decided not to ask her association with the man. She knew more than enough to make even her uncomfortable. “I’ve soul-trapped Falmer in the past. They have the same soul as a wolf or another moderately intelligent animal.”

“Good fucking gods, that’s absolutely horrific.” Calla shuddered. “I have my limits.”

“So did your granma. That’s what got her in the end, that she couldn’t kill her own daughter when Sigdrifa stormed the throne room.” Eola sighed. “Enough gloomy talk. We have a shrine to retake!”

They weren’t going to get to Reachcliff Cave by sunset, so Eola suggested overnighting at Karthwasten with the landholder Ainethach, who came from a noble clan and was one of the few Reachfolk to still hold property. When they got to the mining village, they realised that several Silver-Blood mercenaries were in the processes of trying to extort his silver mine from him.

Calla didn’t even bother with talking, just Conjured a Storm Atronach to close in with the mercenaries as Chain Lightning danced across their steel armour. Eola proved herself to be no slouch by raising the twitching smoking corpses of the fallen sellswords to attack their own.

“By the Left-Hand Gods!” blurted the sideburned tattooed oldster who had to be Ainethach as the leader fell dead under the swords of his own thugs. “You’ve saved me and mine!”

“Until that bastard Thonar tries again,” growled an Orcish woman sourly.

“Thonar’s a little distracted at the moment,” Eola said sweetly. “What with being dead and stuffed into a black soul gem during the King in Rags’ escape from Markarth.”

“Madanach’s _alive_?” demanded one of the other Reachfolk.

“He was a day or so ago,” Calla confirmed as she made sure of the mercenaries with an ice-spike to the throat. “I’d really appreciate if you keep that last detail from the Jarl’s court. I’m from the College of Whispers and I’ve already been framed once in the past few days.”

“Igmund won’t give me the time of day, let alone take my word for anything,” Ainethach said dryly, collecting himself. “I’m Ainethach, hetman of Karthwasten. You are…?”

“Calla of Lost Valley and Eola of Broken Towers,” Eola said before Calla could. “Can we claim the rights of a traveller for the night?”

“Certainly. I’ll see if there’s enough silver to thank you for what you’ve done – and the good news,” Ainethach answered. “We may prefer the Right-Hand Gods in this village, but we respect those who serve the Left-Hand Gods.”

Over a meal of roast goat, jin and grilled leeks, the hetman of the village explained the troubles he’d endured at the hands of both the Silver-Bloods and the nearby redoubts. “Fjotra, Enmon and Mena’s daughter, was kidnapped by Forsworn from Broken Towers Redoubt last week! When we sent for the guards, we got those goons!”

“Really?” Eola asked in disbelief. “We don’t kidnap children – unless they were taken from our camps in the first place in an attempt to ‘civilise them’.”

“I know,” Ainethach said heavily. “That’s what’s so unusual about it: Fjotra is a Nord. A strange child at times but blessed with a great insight into the hearts of others.”

Judging by Eola’s narrowed eyes, Calla suspected the Namiran knew exactly what was going on.

The next morning, after they left Karthwasten, Eola turned to her. “We need to rescue Fjotra,” she said without preamble. “When I was in Markarth, I heard about how the Temple of Dibella had shut itself up for weeks, and they only do that when they’re finding a new Sibyl.”

“You’re from Broken Towers, aren’t you?” Calla asked.

“Yes. It was a sacred place dedicated to Dibella. There have been rumblings in the north and east against Madanach but…” Eola sighed explosively. “Namira is my goddess, but Reachfolk are enjoined to aid all the gods when necessary. At best, the Briarheart’s trying to control the Sibyl by raising her as Forsworn. At worst…”

“Will Namira mind if you take a detour?”

“I can practice Her rites anywhere. The feasting hall just makes it easier for us to gather.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Broken Towers was inhabited exclusively by women who patrolled the ramparts, most of them armed with the powerful Reach longbow. The women were uniformly young and attractive, and several of them had bruises and other signs of abuse.

“Will they let us approach if we make the peace signs?” Calla asked.

“…Possibly. Something is very wrong here and I don’t like it.” Eola’s tone was now grim. “Unbutton your robes to show your lineage tattoos and summon a Dremora. That’ll give them pause.”

Calla did so and the Dremora didn’t look pleased to be there. “It’s cold,” he complained. “Am I to kill all those creatures in the keep?”

“No,” Calla said tersely. “You’re my bodyguard for now.”

“By what right do you claim such arrogance?”

“I am Calla, great-great-granddaughter to the Madgoddess. Do you wish to discuss it further? I can keep your heart and summon another in your place.”

“No!” The Dremora subsided, muttering Daedric imprecations under his breath.

They approached the keep and one of the women on the road stepped forth. “First you and then all the-“

Calla and Eola clenched their fists and crossed their wrists, stopping her in her tracks. “Why have you kidnapped the Sibyl of Dibella?” the Namiran demanded harshly.

“Coroc will destroy the false Sibyl and raise one of us in her place!” the young woman retorted.

“That isn’t how the Sibyl works. Do you want to piss off Dibella? That’s how you piss off Dibella,” Calla informed her. “Who’s Coroc when he’s at home?”

“Briarheart to Petra,” the Forsworn said sullenly. “What’s a daughter of Lost Valley doing dressed as a lowlander mage?”

“I was trained by the greatest Conjurers in the Empire,” Calla said serenely. “My Dremora is very unhappy. It’s cold here. He wants to warm himself in your blood. If you don’t want it to be yours, tell your friends to step aside and it’ll be Coroc’s. If you desire death, then we’ll kill you and kill him anyway.”

She wavered for a moment before breaking and running. Given that Calla had used magic to amplify her voice, the others heard and followed suit.

Eola smirked. “It’s funny how a Dremora lends weight to your words.”

Coroc was a Briarheart, one of those undead warriors who literally carried a briar in their chests, and he might have been dangerous if Calla hadn’t torn the briar out when he tried to fight the Dremora. Eola picked the lock and helped the scared Fjotra out of the room, telling her to stay in the barracks until they’d taken anything portable and valuable from this place.

The Namiran lingered a little and Calla didn’t ask why when she returned. She was too busy trying to assure Fjotra everything would be alright.

“Briarhearts are sworn to serve their Matriarchs and have very little free will of their own,” she said tersely as they left Broken Towers. “When we go to Reachcliff Cave, I want to stop by Blind Cliff and have words. Petra committed blasphemy here and must be dealt with.”

“I’m guessing Petra’s one of the Hagravens who don’t acknowledge Madanach as the High King?” Calla asked.

“Sounds like it. Her sister Melka is supposedly more loyal – but if Petra dared to do this, Melka’s probably dead.” Eola gave her a sideways glance. “Since you’re the Hag, you’ll need to challenge Petra.”

“Yes, because a duel arcane’s what I need on top of everything else,” Calla muttered.


	5. The Eye of Melka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment and corpse desecration with mentions of war crimes, genocide, human sacrifice and cannibalism. References to the Beyond Skyrim: Bruma mod.

“Help yourself to the grave goods. Aside from some crockery, we really don’t use it.” Eola dusted off her hands. “Grab the bone meal. Mix it with blue mountain flower and you’ve got yourself a really powerful Conjuration potion.”

Calla gave her a wry smile. “Yes, we have the same recipe in County Bruma. But if you’re going to throw me up against a Matriarch, I’ll need it.”

The Namiran spread her hands helplessly. “I’m a shaman, Calla, not a Hag. Unless I was given orders from Madanach or another Matriarch, it’d look bad if I were to kill Petra. Whereas _you’ve_ already established yourself as a Hag among the Markarth clans and those who support the Ard Ri. It’s your right to challenge a Hagraven for control of her redoubt.”

“Hooray for me,” Calla muttered as she turned to grinding the draugr bones into dust with an ordinary enough mortar and pestle she’d gotten from her pack.

Eola understood and appreciated her desire to stay out of politics in light of her family history, but whether she liked it or not Calla was a political force by dint of her existence, one that could be used to clear out some of the obstacles in the path of the Ard Ri and his chosen heir Kaie. Even after their failure, the names of Catriona and Madanach held power, and she could appreciate the sense of irony in seeing the daughter of the Stormsword repairing what her mother and Talos set wrong.

It didn’t take long to cleanse the shrine but it needed a rededication feast. Eola was tempted to lure Brother Verulus here through the auspices of Lisbet but… the Cyrod was a Priest of Arkay and would be missed, by his own religious order if nothing else. The Vigilants were a pain in the arse but readily avoidable; the Knights of the Circle, the Arkayan militant order, regularly employed more pragmatic tactics in their fight against necromancy and the undead.

“At least we’ll be able to get that statue of Dibella back to Whatshername at the trading company,” Calla mused as she ground bone dust.

“Lisbet,” Eola told her. “She’s… well, one of my coven.”

“I didn’t hear that,” the mage replied serenely.

“Do you have any plans for Thongvor beyond his disgrace?” Eola asked curiously.

“Not particularly.” Calla paused and arched an eyebrow. “The irony is poetic if you’re planning what I think you’re planning.”

Eola beamed at her. “You’re welcome to come along if you want.”

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. The College of Whispers has strict laws about such things, even if I was so inclined – which I’m not.” Calla returned to her work. “Madanach’s going to need to find a way to make some of the traditional rites more palatable to the surrounding nations. In the Sunset Lands around Evermore, they cremate the dead and plough the ashes into a special field from which the harvested crops are used in memorial ceremonies.”

“I’d heard about that,” Eola admitted. “For folks like Ainethach, that could work, but the Left-Hand Gods offer real power for our devotion. The rites aren’t performed out of a sense of cruelty and brutality – well, they shouldn’t be – but out of reverence for the gods who have helped us survive.”

“There are some Daedric Princes who are just plain monsters,” Calla pointed out. “Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal…”

“Oh yes. Mehrunes has His flaws-“

“My family’s on his perpetual shit list because Great-Great-Granma punched him in the toe, as a mortal, to buy time for Great-Great-Granpa to reach the Temple of the One and then makes it a habit to go beat the shit out of his Dremora every few years as the Madgoddess,” Calla drawled sardonically. “As for Molag Bal… well.”

“Aren’t divine family feuds _fun_?” Eola asked wryly. “Namira and Vaermina regularly squabble. It makes interacting with Her priests fun.”

Calla scraped up all the bone dust and collected what was useful. “Let’s go. I want to clear the way to Blind Cliff Cave and deal with Petra before we escort Fjotra to the Temple of Dibella.”

Kolskeggr Mine, the richest gold mine in the Reach, had been taken over by more rebels and after the Briarheart left several burns on Calla, the sorceress demonstrated her knowledge of necromancy by turning the traitor’s own kin against him. They wouldn’t have known of this if the trio on the bridge hadn’t attacked after Eola and Calla showed peace-sign. Petra, it seemed, was ambitious.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the College of Whispers that you raised a few Forsworn,” Eola assured Calla as the latter rubbed burn salve onto her forearms and face.

“Oh, they’d understand. Explaining myself to my uncle Irkand would be the unpleasant task.”

Eola shuddered. Every Daedric cultist on Tamriel, unless they lived in the arse-end of nowhere, knew of Arkay’s Blade.

“Precisely.” Calla glanced around at all the golden ingots. “I’m grabbing a couple of these for our troubles. We’ll let the Jarl know when we reach Markarth.”

“The two who lease the mine aren’t bad – Pavo and some Orc. They hired Reachfolk at fair wages.” Eola hummed thoughtfully. “They probably fled to Left-Hand Mine – it’s an iron mine run primarily by Nords. We’ll stop by with Fjotra and let them know.”

“But Petra first. I want to overnight here. I need to heal.” Calla bandaged her right forearm. “I haven’t met this Matriarch and she’s already pissed me off.”

“Yes, she has that effect on people.”

The front guards at Blind Cliff Cave attacked on sight, even after they were shown peace-sign, so the buttons were off the points. Calla was a wonderfully pragmatic woman who had no problems with sneaking and could quiet-cast, so they just picked off Petra’s followers one by one until they came into a chamber where a disconsolate Hagraven huddled in a cave. “Melka,” Eola murmured in Calla’s ear.

“Petra! Evil Petra put me here, stole my tower. Hate her, chew her bones! Let me out, kind, kind meat,” the Hagraven croaked. “Ah, I have a pretty staff. Help me find Petra, wring her neck, pluck her eyes. Take my prize staff, I just want my tower back!”

“Works for me, Matriarch,” Eola said lightly. “I’d brought Calla mac Catriona here to challenge Petra, but if you’re still loyal to Madanach, we’ll be glad to assist you.”

“I knew Madanach was alive, like a worm eating out the heartwood of the Silver-Bloods’ empire,” the Hagraven said simply. “Let me out, kind meat, and you may take what you want from this tower.”

They released Melka and she stepped out of the cage, hissing and stretching her arms. “You are Catriona’s blood,” she said to Calla. “I thought Catriona’s sons died, sent to their deaths by treacherous Dengeir!”

“I’m from the female get,” Calla said grimly. “That one pretended I never existed and left me to the Empire.”

Melka patted her shoulder kindly. “When Petra is dead, you can be my chief Hag.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I have previous obligations.” Calla took a deep breath and gestured, Conjuring a Frost Atronach and a Storm one. “Let’s take care of the trash.”

If it had been Petra facing only Calla or Melka, it would have been a more even contest, but between them and the Briarheart Eola raised, the traitor-Hagraven was cut down even as she burned and twitched from fire and lightning. The loot she’d collected from her illegal raids was impressive, including a steel shield embossed with the ram of Igmund’s family – Hrolfdir’s shield itself.

“Take it,” Melka urged. “I have no need for useless baubles.”

Eola quickly explained the shield’s significance to Calla, who pursed her lips. “I think we might have Ainethach come with us to present it to Igmund,” the sorceress finally said. “Igmund told me to find a Reachman who wasn’t a ‘heathen savage’ and if he’s made aware of the fact that the hetman of Karthwasten set us on this path, he’ll have to eat his words. Ainethach is well beloved by his town, he’s a landowner, and he’ll have done services for the Hold. If Igmund doesn’t make him Thane…”

“He’ll just look like the racist bastard he is,” Eola finished. “For someone who dislikes politics, you play it well.”

“Thanks,” Calla said dryly. “I could probably make myself Thane but I really want to stay under the notice of Tullius and Ulfric. Once I get my share from Nchuand-Zel, I’m going to the College of Winterhold. I think the Whispers will appreciate having one of their own assist in the excavation of Saarthal.”

“I thought you were loyal to Madanach,” Melka observed confusedly.

“He’s my granma’s cousin,” Calla told her. “I’m trying to blunt the Silver-Bloods’ power and give some back to the Reachfolk. No more and no less. I stay out of politics.”

Melka chuckled darkly. “You are god-meat, royal meat. You will not escape that.”


	6. Political Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, genocide, cannibalism and religious conflict.

“I did but as you commanded, Jarl Igmund. I have found a Reachman who isn’t a heathen savage that has fulfilled the requirements of becoming a Thane. If it wasn’t for Ainethach, Eola and myself wouldn’t have known of the Forsworn kidnapping of Dibella’s new Sibyl – blasphemous in their faith – or retrieved your father’s shield or cleared out Kolskeggr Mine.”

Calla folded her tattooed arms within the wide sleeves of her robes as Jarl Igmund scowled down at her and Eola and Ainethach. The hetman of Karthwasten was quietly impressed at how she’d put Igmund and Raerek on the spot concerning the situation. If they refused to elevate him to Thaneship because of his ancestry, they told all of the Reach that only Nords counted in the halls of power and therefore did half of Madanach’s work for him. If they did elevate him to Thaneship, then it sent a very clear message to Thongvor that a new centre of power was being built in the Jarl’s court, one that acknowledged the Reachfolk’s voice in their own lands. For a woman who disdained politics, she played it as adeptly as Madanach when he wasn’t consumed by righteous rage.

To his right, the Legate of the local Imperial forces shifted, armour clanking with the movement. “So you’re giving Ainethach the credit for your recent deeds, Aurelia Callaina?”

“Calla,” she corrected mildly. “I prefer Calla for any number of personal and political reasons.”

The Namiran High Priestess snorted in response to Emmanuel’s question. “No. Calla and I were the ones who shed the blood and broke the bones. But after we dealt with those rogue mercenaries attempting to force Ainethach from his mine, rogues who subverted your own authority after the hetman sent for your aid after Fjotra’s kidnapping, he asked us to handle Broken Towers, which led us to a conspiracy led by the Hagraven Petra to control the midlands of the Reach and therefore the trade routes.”

Calla inclined her head to Eola. “She has a better grasp of hill-clan politics than I do. Petra was attempting, as I understand, to control some of the sacred sites of the hill-clans _and_ the city-clans so that she could set up a stooge as the new Ard Ri. Just because Hagravens are bestial, it doesn’t follow that they are stupid, Legate Admand. Ainethach saved many lives with his actions.”

“A pity Madanach escaped,” Emmanuel sighed. “The rebellion would die if he did.”

“You wish,” Eola said bluntly. “For centuries we’ve been denied autonomy in our own lands by foreign invaders who suppress our culture and ways. If you can give leave to the Orcs and Dunmer to worship Daedric Princes and the Bosmer to practice their ritual cannibalism, why can’t our ways – within certain limits, of course – be allowed?”

“I’ve visited the Sunset Lands – western High Rock around Evermore – and saw how the hill-clans adapted to continue their traditional ways in a manner acceptable to the Empire,” Calla added. “There is a clear choice facing the Jarl’s court: to do as the Duke of Evermore did and compromise… or to finish what Talos started and to completely wipe out the hill-clans in an act of genocide as vicious as anything Ulfric and the Stormcloaks promulgate. I can’t speak for Madanach, though I told him much the same as I’ve told you, but I do know that the Empire can ill afford a nasty little local war on top of the Stormcloak rebellion. Ulfric has lines he won’t cross, even if the Stormsword doesn’t; the Forsworn would sooner salt the earth of the Reach and take all their enemies with them than live in a land where the Stormcloaks – or those like to them – rule.”

Eola smiled sweetly as Igmund blanched, while Raerek and Emmanuel looked thoughtful. “I can tell you now, as one of the hill-clans, that most of them would swear almost any oath to see Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s heads on pikes. Two thousand witch-warriors, each of them with a grudge watered in blood and grief against the Stormcloaks.”

“You paint a pretty picture,” Admand conceded. “But Thongvor holds more troops and wealth than anything we can muster.”

“He’s blatantly supported Talos worship,” Calla said softly. “You have Thonar’s own diary, for which you can thank Madanach, by the way. By Imperial law, that which you profess to follow, you have the right to expropriate his holdings and exile him to Windhelm.”

Eola’s smile was dark. “It’s a long way through hostile terrain for a Silver-Blood to ride, Jarl Igmund.”

“What’s to stop him from joining up with the Stormcloak camp in the hills and taking the Reach?” Raerek asked intelligently.

“The Reachfolk,” Ainethach reminded him. “Most of us understand that the Nords aren’t going anywhere. We just want the same rights as any other citizen of the Empire.”

“You can’t demand the loyalty and labour of people without giving them the same rights,” Calla added softly.

Igmund scowled darkly. “I make no agreements with Daedra worshippers and necromancers. My soldiers will burn them out and I’ll hang Madanach from the eaves of that Akaviri Temple on Karthspire.”

Calla snorted. “You wouldn’t be able to get inside. That’s the Dragonborn’s eyrie, sealed from the likes of you by ancient Akaviri sorcery.”

“That’s your final word then?” Eola asked in a sweetly chilling voice.

“It is,” Igmund said. “Be glad I don’t have you whipped from Markarth for your audacity. I want you gone by sunset.”

“So my share of the Nchuand-Zel goods is ready?” Calla asked mildly.

“I’m keeping it. Take what you have and leave. It’s more than a Daedric worshipper like you deserves.”

“I am not a Daedric cultist,” Calla answered flatly. “Look to the Mournful Throne in the next few weeks, Igmund. I think Thongvor’s going to plant himself on it in no short order.”

She bowed with insulting precision and turned. Eola’s smile promised a dark fate for the Jarl if she got her hands on him. Ainethach bowed, gave Raerek and Admand a helpless glance, and followed suit.

“Well, so much for a peaceful resolution,” Ainethach sighed as they hurried for the gate.

“It isn’t over yet. I suspect you’ll be hearing from certain parties,” Calla said quietly. “When Tullius gets word, he’ll move heaven and earth to keep the Reach in the Empire… and gain more allies against Ulfric.”

It seemed prophecy was one of her god-gifted abilities, because by the end of the next day, Ainethach was receiving messages from the independent landowners of the Reach, from Pavo at Kolskeggr to Perth of Soljund’s Sinkhole. Some were offers of support, others were requests for assistance from Calla and Eola. More tellingly, the chiefs of Dushnikh Yal and Mor Khazgur sent gifts of iron weapons to Karthwasten, for the strongholds had long been allies of the Reachfolk.

Calla tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robes, now somewhat more tattered and worn, as Perth’s messenger spoke of risen draugr driving the miners forth from the Sinkhole. “If I do this, your boss will vote in the next Holdmoot?” she asked the young man.

“Sure. Ainethach ain’t as crazy as the hill-chiefs an’ he’s got god-blessin’ if a god-blooded Hag an’ a Left-Hand priestess is workin’ for him,” Tuthul answered easily.

“He’s given me hospitality until Igmund damn well gives me the wergild that’s owed,” Calla corrected. “I’m just doing the duty of a guest at a hetman’s hearth.”

“Huh?”

“Calla’s spent most of her life in the lowlands and so she’s got some of that honour they speak of, except in her case, she actually has it in more than words,” Ainethach told him dryly.

“Oh. Like one them Companions.” Tuthul nodded wisely. “Perth is sick of them Silver-Bloods. He’d probably vote to make a draugr Thane if it ate Thongvor.”

“That could be arranged,” Calla observed sardonically.

Ghorbash the Iron-Hand, brother to Dushnikh Yal’s chief, cleared his throat. “Burguk would offer more than a few iron weapons if the Forgemaster’s Fingers are found.”

“The legendary gauntlets of Agol gro-Mashog?” Calla asked, eyes narrowing.

The Orc raised an eyebrow. “You’re more educated than I expected.”

“My great-great-granma is the Madgoddess.”

“Ah.” Ghorbash drawled out the syllable. “Then if your blood runs true, Malacath will guide you to them.”

“If you wait a couple days, I’ll be able to join you,” Eola said to the sorceress.

“For a few draugr? I should be fine. Go do… whatever you have to.” Calla, for all her pragmatism, was uncomfortable with Eola being a Namiran.

The next day, both women left in different directions, and Ainethach turned his mind to getting Suaranach functional again. If he were to make a bid for Thaneship, he’d need all the silver he could purify.

On the second day after Calla and Eola’s departure, Thongvor’s huscarl Yngvar the Singer marched in with two mercenaries of the same ilk led by Atar. A quick glance to Lash and Ragnar had the two miners standing by the smelters, great ladles at the ready, and Ghorbash had taken a position near the entrance to the village. They were better prepared this time around.

“You’ve gotten above yourself, native,” sneered Yngvar. “Thongvor would have paid you good coin for the mine. Now, he’s sent me to teach you-“

“Shut. Up. Without his worthless bastard brother, Thongvor has only the strength of his silver and the support of the far-distant Ulfric Stormcloak to buoy him,” Ainethach interrupted wearily. “The Legate is aware of your master’s treason. I’m given to understand he’s been asking hard questions of the Hold guard in regards to corrupt practices. If I were you, I’d go to the lowlands and find some honest work to do.”

“I’ll mount your head on my wall!” snarled Yngvar. “Make him scream, boys.”

It wasn’t Ainethach who screamed but Ragnar, bellowing the great war cry of the Nords, as he flung a ladleful of smelted silver at the mercenaries. They scattered instinctively, breaking up their pattern, and Ghorbash displayed the skill of a Legionary by killing the one who came nearest to him with no more effort than Lash did in cleaning fish. Yngvar goggled as the Orc turned around, broke into a sprint, and cut the other one down without breaking a sweat.

The Singer cursed and bolted for the road – only to be pierced through with a half-dozen arrows, fletched as only the hill-clans did, from the bows of six Forsworn warriors with red eagle feathers in their knotted hair. The seventh, a spare saturnine figure wearing a cloak of snowy sabre cat fur, lowered his hood to reveal a much-aged but still familiar face.

“Well, well,” Madanach said with a broad grin, “I didn’t expect to arrive to such splendid entertainment. What in the name of the et’Ada are _you_ , of all people, meddling in politics?”

…

“I don’t think it’s so much loyalty to the Empire as it is indulging in some petty vengeance against her mother and the Silver-Bloods,” Emmanuel Admand observed as Hadvar, Rikke’s aide, poured mead for him and the Legate Primus. “But Callaina and her Forsworn friend made some damned good suggestions.”

“Of course they did. She’s served in the Legion, she’s the granddaughter of Madanach’s First Matriarch, and she’s inherited some of Sigdrifa’s tactical acumen,” Rikke answered, nodding gratefully to Hadvar. “Madanach reached out to the Empire the first time, but the Gracchi undermined him _and_ the Stormcloaks at the order of the Emperor, who was more concerned with preserving his throne no matter the cost than future… troubles.”

“That’s close to treason,” the Reach’s Legate pointed out.

“It’s the truth.” General Marcus Tullius, standing at the door, answered before Rikke could. “Things were desperate then for all of us, and he was reeling from how close Arius came to unseating him. If it wasn’t for that warning from Falkreath-“

“Half of Skyrim’s remaining warriors would have marched to put a goddamn Septim, however mad, on the throne,” Rikke finished after a mouthful of mead.

Tullius took a seat at the table and accepted a cup of wine from Hadvar. “Half the Colovian Estates would have joined him as well. Though I suspect most of them were planning to send Arius to Akatosh and rule as ‘regent’ for Callaina. No one wanted a madman near the Ruby Throne.”

“What about Rustem and Irkand? They’d have… intervened.”

“Rustem had already gone native in Hammerfell,” Rikke answered. “Irkand, at the time, was still recovering from the Battle of the Red Ring and would have left well enough alone so long as Calla was treated well.”

Admand grunted. “We were luckier than I realised. General, what do you think of a Reachman Thane?”

“I’m going to do one better. What I’ve heard about Ainethach impresses me. Putting a Reachman moderate on the Mournful Throne and expropriating the Silver-Bloods’ assets will solve several problems, even more than it would make.” Tullius drank some wine thirstily. He’d been training with his cavalry troop. “I’m thinking Nord, Reachman, Nord, Reachman for the succession. We’d already tapped Argis the Bulwark as a potential Jarl should Igmund die without issue.”

Admand nodded. “He’s actually from one of the royal clans. But I thought the Elder Council wanted-“

“Fuck the Elder Council,” Tullius interrupted bluntly. “The Gracchi have given me a dog’s mess of a province. I’d almost consider putting Calla on the damned Mournful Throne if it kept the Reach in the Empire. She’s got a claim to it, if we confirm Madanach’s.”

“Ainethach as a sort of… caretaker Jarl will work, but we need to include the hill-clans in the process,” Admand agreed slowly. “Calla pointed out that if we didn’t, we’d have another County Bruma.”

“Have Argis marry one of the hill-clan women,” Rikke suggested. “He’s popular enough.”

Tullius leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Do you think Calla left her friends to die in Nchuand-Zel, or worse?”

“I’ve got a couple agents who are fluent in Reach-tongue, and they tell me she told her friend Eola – who’s almost certainly a Daedric cultist, probably of Namira – that they’d been idiots and that she should have taken command of the expedition from Staubin,” Admand answered. “Quaestor Alethius’ report confirms this.”

“That matches with her Legion file,” Tullius mused. “Do you know where she’s planning to go next?”

“Winterhold. Her expertise will be popular what with them excavating Saarthal…”

“Tell her I’ll make it good with the College of Whispers,” Tullius said after another mouthful of wine. “I know it’s too much to expect her to turn against Sigdrifa _openly_ -“

“Oh, Calla will defy the Stormsword and even possibly spike her wheels, but she won’t fight her mother lest she become a kinslayer,” Rikke interrupted. “She’s a _Nord_ , General. More of one than her mother.”

“Not hard,” Admand said dryly.

“Indeed,” Tullius agreed. “Tell Calla I’ll make it good with the College of Whispers for her service in the Reach and when she’s done, I want her to stop by Solitude on the way to Winterhold. I don’t trust Ancano from what Thane Kraldar tells me and I’d like to have a set of eyes on him, one who is skilled in… dealing with troublesome Thalmor.”

“General, we don’t have any _proof_ that Nurancar the Younger was slain by Calla,” Rikke said with a smirk.

“That woman is far too comfortable with her Daedric ancestress for Nurancar to have randomly fallen mad and run off naked into the snow,” Tullius said sardonically. “The Madgoddess despises the Dominion, and while she won’t lift a hand to help Mede, she’ll still help the Empire on occasion.”

“You can’t command the gods,” Admand pointed out.

“True, but if you know what you’re doing, you can let them deal with the occasional problem.”


	7. The Ghost of Old Hroldan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes and genocide.

Calla entered the Old Hroldan Inn in a foul mood. She’d gotten used to having an ally around and so was careless in the Sinkhole, where the draugr’s Shout had nearly landed her arse over tit. She’d lost some of her Legion-honed conditioning and agility in the past year, leading to a wrenched back that ached even under a healing potion. Perth had paid up and promised to support Ainethach at the Holdmoot. As a bonus she’d even found the Forgemaster’s Fingers, which would please Ghorbash the Iron-Hand. While she wasn’t as close to her Orcish kin as she had been to her granma, she and Tarlak gro-Agol communicated sporadically by letter. Finding a sacred Orcish artefact would please him, she thought. Perhaps she should ask Ainethach to consider sending his silver to Orsinium. The trade would do them both well.

“I’ve got food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty,” greeted the weary-eyes Nord innkeeper.

“How much for a bed? I just got my arse nearly kicked by a gods-be-damned draugr that could Shout,” Calla said with a groan as muscles in her back protested.

“Ten septims a night. It’s a bargain given you’ll be renting Tiber Septim’s room,” was the answer.

“Tiber Septim’s room?” Calla asked, eyebrow lifting.

“That's right. In the Second Era, Tiber Septim himself led the army that conquered Old Hroldan from the barbarians of the Reach. Septim would later found the Empire that united Tamriel, but his first known battle and victory was right here. And this inn has the very bed the great general slept in on his first night as Old Hroldan's liberator. As good as it was hundreds of years ago.”

“Fuck me, there’s no escaping the bastard around here,” Calla muttered as she handed over the ten septims. “Maybe I’ll cleanse it in salt and spelt.”

“You’re a Reacher?” the innkeeper asked, blanching. “Look, I meant no insult-“

“Granma was a Reacher Nord, my mother was a Kreathling Nord, and I’m an Akaviri Nord out of Bruma,” Calla answered wearily. “I’ve just lost a lot of family in the name of bloody Talos and I’m sick of it.”

“I understand.” She sighed. “I’m Eydis. The boy’s my son Skuli and the help’s Rogatus.”

“Calla. Don’t be concerned about the tattoos; I only Conjure Atronachs if someone’s trying to kill me and I most definitely don’t worship Daedric Princes.” Calla rubbed the small of her back. “Can you make up a gruel of wheat and blue mountain flowers? I was reminded today I’ve let myself go since leaving the Legion.”

For an isolated inn located near a killing ground, Eydis provided a good meal and the gruel eased more of the pain in her back. Calla went to sleep in Tiber Septim’s bed… and awoke to a scream.

Coming out in nothing but a thin shift with a Flame Atronach flashing into being in the corner wasn’t perhaps the best response because Eydis collapsed in a dead faint as Skuli poked at the glowing spirit sitting at the bar with a piece of kindling.

“Hjalti? Is that you?” the ghost asked as Calla approached, hands now glowing with a banishing spell. “I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m not Hjalti, you daft ghost!” Calla snapped. “Sod off to Sovngarde or wherever you’re meant to be.”

The ghost paused, then grinned. “Yes, I don’t remember Hjalti having tits. But you are blood of his. He promised to make me his sworn brother after we sacked Hrol’dan. And I've waited. Even after the enemies' arrows dug into my chest and their hammers crushed my bones. I've waited. Find me his sword, so we might be sworn brothers in truth.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to move your arse from that stool until you do?”

“No,” the ghost said cheerfully. “None will come to harm. Maybe I’ll teach the boy a little sword-craft from the masters of Alcaire. He’s brave.”

“Fuck me,” Calla muttered under her breath. “Why does every daft bastard who knows my family come to me for help?”

The ghost laughed.

Clairvoyance led her to a redoubt not too distant from the inn, one that was located in two towers. _Sundered Towers, the birthplace of Red Eagle,_ Calla mused as she studied the redoubt. It would be a good place to keep the relics of Tiber Septim. For she remembered that once he’d been called Hjalti Early-Beard.

The Forsworn here weren’t interested in respecting the peace-sign – or maybe they already knew her mission – and Calla was forced to rely on the raised corpses of her enemies to take other foes out. The risen Briarheart finished off his own Matriarch, who called imprecations down on Catriona as she died, and so she came into possession of an ancient sword with a knotwork pommel in the Reach style, a key to… somewhere… and a simple sword of iron in the old Nord manner, etched with runes spelling out Hjalti’s name. Calla was too exhausted to return to Old Hroldan, so she curled up on the nearest pallet and dreamt.

**_“We are more alike than you’ll admit,”_** _mused the grizzled Nord, of medium height, with the rosy-fair skin and the forest-green warpaint of the Reach. They looked over a desolate version of the Druadachs, scorched stone and smoking juniper trees, under a sky red as blood._

_**“I am**_ **nothing _like you!”_** _Calla retorted._

_**“You’re different enough that Akatosh can’t map out the future beyond Helgen,”** he replied. **“Calla, blood of my blood. You have a soul like mine, one with a Voice that will shake the heavens themselves. Dragons make poor servants and worse masters if they give themselves free rein.”**_

**_“You’d know. We’re still paying for your sins.”_ **

**_“And those of Martin and Aurelia and Red Eagle and Felldir and Kin-Tatsuo,”_ ** _was the mild reply. **“But you’re not quite ready for this conversation. We’ll talk later.”**_

And she awoke, unable to remember.

“I have Hjalti’s sword,” she told the ghost later on as he turned from instructing Skuli in sword and shield techniques. Eydis had recovered, though her expression was sickly.

“Thank you.” The ghost clasped her forearms. “For someone with savage blood, you have honour. Pity I can’t teach a Clever One my tricks, for iron is forbidden to them.”

“When you see Hjalti, tell him his last descendant tells him to go get fucked for the grief he left us,” she said sourly as he faded away, the sword going with him.

“By the gods,” Eydis breathed. “I’d heard this place was haunted but…”

“It’s not anymore, and I’ll cleanse it to make sure,” Calla said, walking to her pack to shove the other sword in it. Maybe Ainethach could make something of it.

Eydis gave her an odd look but said nothing.

The next morning, Calla returned to Karthwasten, only to find three heads on a pike and what had to be the royal tent of Madanach himself. “Fuck me dead,” she muttered. “It never ends.”

Ainethach was holding court in his hall, nursing a cup of jin and a broken nose, with a garland of juniper berries around his head. “You missed the fun,” the hetman said wryly.

“I doubt that greatly. I nearly died to draugr and had to go find the childhood sword of bloody Talos for the ghost at the Old Hroldan Inn,” Calla told him sourly. “The Matriarch of the Sundered Towers wasn’t interested in talking.”

“Madanach told me that if I wanted to be the leader of the Reach, I could earn it in the old way by beating him in a fight,” Ainethach answered ruefully. “I got lucky when he tripped on a rock but the Hag of his redoubt is claiming the Reach decided the victor. Congratulations, I’m the new Ard Ri.”

“Looks like he got a good blow or two in.” Calla pulled out the sword from the Sundered Towers and the key. “When I got that damned sword, I found these too.”

“By the gods… That’s Red Eagle’s sword!” Ainethach downed his cup of jin and took the blade from her hands. “And the key to his tomb. Calla, this is one of the hill-clans’ greatest relics!”

“I didn’t plan on taking it, but the redoubt’s folk wouldn’t respect the peace-sign…” Calla rubbed the back of her neck. “How much trouble am I in?”

“You’re a Hag, woman. Or I should say Matriarch, given you’ve defeated the one from Sundered Towers.” Ainethach rose to his feet.

“Even though I turned her own Briarheart against her by raising his corpse?”

“I… don’t know.” Ainethach sighed. “I made Madanach my commander. The man’s still an excellent general. Let’s see what he has to say about it.”

“Calla!” the former King greeted as they entered his tent. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

“She killed the Matriarch of the Sundered Towers and brought the sword of Red Eagle to us,” Ainethach told him. “She isn’t sure of the validity of the duel because she used the risen corpse of the Hag’s own Briarheart against her.”

“Was it an ambush or an open battle?” Madanach gestured at them to sit on the rough camp-stools.

“I made peace-sign because I wanted to ask if I could return a certain iron sword to the ghost of Old Hroldan Inn, but they weren’t interested in talking,” Calla admitted with a sigh. “Damn bastard knew my bloodline and enjoined me to fulfil his last oath by giving him the bloody thing.”

“So the stories are true,” Madanach said with a sigh of his own.

“Sadly. I told the ghost to tell Hjalti to get fucked when he got to Sovngarde for all the grief he’s given us all.”

Madanach laughed. “Catriona taught you well, my dear girl, she taught you well!”

“Calla’s descended from more than one god,” Kaie told Ainethach, who looked bemused. “One who isn’t beloved in the Reach.”

“Oh.” Ainethach wasn’t an idiot. “Well, at least that damned ghost is gone. He liked to spit on Reachfolk and call them savages.”

“He won’t be coming back. I cleansed him with salt and spelt.” Calla pushed her hair back. “So what now?”

“Ainethach wears the Juniper Crown now,” Madanach said softly. “I… saw the truth in what you said, but I couldn’t put down the sword. There isn’t just a move for a Reachman Thane, Calla. We’re moving to make Ainethach Jarl. We received a message from Tullius saying he was willing to give us a chance for a Jarl of our own blood if we were willing to launch ourselves at Ulfric.”

“Neither Igmund nor Thongvor will take that well.”

“No, he won’t, and Ulfric will like it even less. But with Torygg’s death, we need every ally we can get,” said the woman who entered the tent. Tall and square-shouldered, she had the firm gaze and muscles of a lifetime professional soldier.

“Rikke,” Calla greeted with a sigh. “Here to conscript me again?”

“Legally, I can’t, though I think Tullius wants you to act as an agent in Winterhold when you’re done here,” the Legate Primus answered, taking the last stool. “Ancano, the Thalmor adviser, is getting to be a problem.”

“What’s in it for me?” Calla asked bluntly.

“Tullius has already reassured the College of Whispers that Staubin got his team killed through stupidity,” was Rikke’s reply. “You’re going to the College of Winterhold anyway. If you should serve the Empire along the way, it will be remembered.”

Madanach leaned forward. “Thongvor’s smuggling in arms and armour for the Stormcloaks east of here. I won’t ask you to lift a spell against your mother, scum-bitch that she is, because I know that damns a Nord. But can I count on you, Kaie and Argis the Bulwark to destroy the camp?”

“You’re talking about butchery,” Calla said softly.

“I’m paying them back in kind. If you’d rather join the assault on Markarth, I understand – more glory and honour and all that Nord rubbish.”

Calla shuddered. “It’s better to weaken Thongvor in the country than try to storm the city.”

Madanach’s smile was sad. “I rather thought you’d see it that way.”


	8. Not a Casualty Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and mentions of religious conflict, genocide, war crimes, cannibalism and imprisonment. I added another planned chapter because the attack on the Stormcloak camp and its aftermath deserves a chapter of its own.

It was one of those misty dawns for which the Reach was famous for, the sky a sullen ochre-gold smudge to the east. Below them, the Stormcloak camp was stirring, a lowly new-blood blowing up the embers of the fire as the night-guards yawned at their posts. Fifty soldiers wearing the grey-blue tabard of Eastmarch and a powerful-looking commander in heavy bearskin armour thick enough to dull the bite of a Legionary’s gladius. A formidable force when you recognised the Legion training and Shieldmaiden-instilled discipline in the ranks.

“Conjure Daedra,” ordered Kaie in her low sweet voice.

A motley collection of Flame, Frost and Storm Atronachs appeared, still concealed by the mist, as did a single Dremora Lord. “What do you want from me?” he rasped in disgust. Most Dremora had no love for Creation.

“On Kaie’s signal, engage and kill the officer in bearskins,” Calla commanded him. “When he is dead, you may kill as many of the soldiers in blue-grey as you can before you are returned to Oblivion.”

“Not much of a challenge,” noted the warrior.

“I know a blacksmith always looking for Daedra hearts to make potent weapons with,” Calla told him sweetly.

“So you are the one they call ‘Heart-Taker’,” the Dremora said meditatively. “I will obey – not out of fear for you, but because my sword is getting dull from lack of killing.”

“Whatever works.”

“On my count… One. Two. Three. _Kill,_ ” Kaie ordered quietly.

The Daedra swarmed down the hill to engage the Stormcloaks, causing cries of shock and horror from the lowlands Nords. Some of them, Calla had been told, were the remnant Silver-Blood mercenaries. But most were lowlander conscripts, as like the Akaviri Nords of Bruma, the Reacher Nords had been taken from their homes and raised in an alien culture. Argis the Bulwark, who was the Legion’s pick to follow Ainethach as Jarl, was one of the few who remained in the country and culture. Calla envied him a little.

“Archers,” Kaie said, louder now. “Loose!”

A storm of arrows, launched from the deceptively primitive hill-clan longbows, struck Daedra and Stormcloak alike. Atronachs vanished in a flare of unholy light, their energy dispersed, while Nords fell to the ground with groans and cries of pain. The Dremora was still fighting the commander, who was giving a good accounting of himself despite the streaks of blood on his bearskins. Calla detected her mother’s harsh hand in the man’s competence.

“Mages!” Kaie ordered harshly. “Now!”

Most of the Forsworn knew Destruction magic of Apprentice-level or better, firebolts and lightning strikes leaving scorched wounds in their wake. Calla gathered her energies into icy spears, one to each hand, and launched them at the commander. Wielding a two-handed greatsword, he could only stare in horror as one gashed his arm and the other struck his leg. Roaring in triumph, the Dremora’s Daedric greatsword fell down in a red-black arc and parted head from body.

There wasn’t even the pragmatic honour of the Legion in this fight. Kaie simply ordered volleys of magic and arrows as the Dremora stalked among the wounded Stormcloaks like a wolf among sheep. By the time the sun had risen above the Druadachs, only the three precious horses lived in the Stormcloak camp.

Not a single Forsworn had died.

Argis, quieter and more vaguely sickened by the slaughter than Kaie, had the camp looted, the bodies and tents piled into a single pyre, and burned with mage-fire to leave nothing but ash. Steel and iron weapons were rare among the hill-clans because it was held that cold iron caused the spirits they revered to flee, so the Stormcloaks’ arms were allotted to the Legion as its share. They’d melt them down to repair or forge proper pilums, gladiuses and other Imperial weapons. Calla was given a horse with Kaie and Argis keeping the other two. The gold and supplies were split among the other fifteen warriors. The alchemical ingredients, enchanted implements and books would go to the Hags and shamans.

None of them looked back as they left that valley, only ashes and blood-soaked grass signs of the fight.

At Karthwasten, the mining village had transformed into a Legion-Forsworn encampment, Madanach and Rikke sharing command of the coming effort. “It’s done,” Kaie said cheerfully, throwing the head of the Stormcloak commander onto the table. “Not a single casualty.”

“Good. We’ll be marching on Markarth tomorrow.” Rikke pushed back her silver-threaded hair. “Igmund’s not going to be happy about being removed from the Mournful Throne, but he’s been loyal-“

“He was given the opportunity to show he wasn’t a racist cunt and he failed at the task,” Madanach interrupted harshly. “Even Tullius has washed his hands of him.”

“If being a racist cunt was a capital offence, half the nobles of Skyrim would be on the chopping block,” Rikke said with a sigh. “I’m going to move him to the Imperial City as Skyrim’s ambassador to the Elder Council. With Raerek keeping him on an even keel, he can’t botch it too badly.”

“Cheer up, Madanach,” Ainethach murmured to the former King in Reach-Tongue. “Igmund’s likely to say something stupid and we’ll get to kill him.”

“How will the other Jarls take this?” Kaie asked, washing her hands in a bowl of juniper-scented water.

“I think Elisif and Idgrod will be pleased, as both of them have Reacher ancestry, and Balgruuf can be bought off with a good trade deal,” Rikke answered. “Siddgeir won’t care so long as he can continue to live in idle luxury.”

“The Old Holds are led by rebels and so their opinion means nothing unless one of them develops a sudden rash of common sense,” Admand agreed. “Our main concern in the east is the Stormcloaks attempting to take the Reach back by main force. Ulfric and Sigdrifa can muster five thousand men in about a week.”

“And they’ll lose half of them in the first two days,” Madanach said grimly. “We’ve learned more about lowlander tactics. Did you know a Ward can stop a Shout? We practiced enough on king-draugr to discover that.”

“I’ll want that trick for my battlemages,” Rikke told him frankly.

“What about a surgical strike?” Calla suggested. “Tullius has enough specialists. Lure Ulfric out into the open, ambush him, haul his arse to Imperial territory if he survives and execute him quietly. If my mother’s as charming as I remember, she’ll have trouble holding the Stormcloaks together.”

“That could work, but we’d need to take the Stormspawn into account. Bjarni’s got his father’s charisma and Egil’s got his mother’s brains, and neither of them are racist arseholes,” Rikke replied with a grimace.

Calla felt her knees give way. She had _brothers?_

Argis caught her before she could collapse and held her as she swayed in shock.

“You didn’t know.” It was a statement, not a question, from Madanach.

“No, I didn’t.” Calla looked away, feeling exposed. “My mother’s managed to fuck up two more children. Talented, isn’t she?”

Rikke sighed. “We’ve been trying to encourage Bjarni’s cosmopolitanism and Egil’s piety to get them out of the fight. I don’t relish the thought of killing two of Skyrim’s brightest minds simply because they’ve been poisoned from childhood by treasonous parents.”

“If they’ve got Lost Valley blood, they’ll be hard to sway,” Madanach said with a sigh. “Pardon me for the lack of tears, but Ulfric and Sigdrifa stripped the Reach of an entire generation of its brightest minds and left us with few leaders for the future. Ask Muiri mac Bothela or Bryn mac Gillam sometime about their years in the Old Holds and tell me I should care about a couple of… what did you call them? Stormspawn.”

“So the Shieldbitch did to the Reachfolk what the Empire did to the Akaviri Nords,” Calla said disgustedly. “The hypocrisy is staggering.”

And here she was, supporting the Empire that committed such acts. But what choice did she have? She thought of Bruma and imagined Markarth in similar desolation and shuddered.

“I know,” Rikke agreed quietly. “But the other alternative is the world ruled by the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Ainethach took a deep breath, breaking the tense silence that followed. “How much resistance can we expect in Markarth?”

After the debriefing, Calla escaped the tent to get some fresh air on the hill overlooking Karthwasten. The mists of the morning had cleared into a glorious afternoon, revealing the faint outline of Sky Haven Temple atop the Karthspire. Whenever she saw it, she felt a chill deep in her bones.

“That too is your heritage,” rasped a familiar and beloved voice from behind.

Despite everything, Calla smiled. “Granma.”

Catriona wore the face of the tall, spare Nord she’d been before pledging her soul to Hircine, frost-streaked black hair and pale green eyes giving her an austere appearance. She wore the simple black robe of a Hag with a bone-beaded rope belt, feet bare on the cold earth. Like her infamous Shieldmaiden daughter, she burned with a cold grim fury and a desire to do what must be done to achieve the goals she set herself.

“Granddaughter.” That harsh voice softened like the first spring-melt. “The fates of men and mer swirl around you like a stream around a rock, Calla. To fight it is to deny the role the gods have set for you in these coming days.”

“None of this was planned,” Calla said helplessly, spreading her hands.

“It rarely is.” Catriona joined her on the hillside overlooking Karthwasten. “Your mother surely knows that you’re in Skyrim now, acting against her interests. Your father’s doing what he can to protect you, but the Dark Brotherhood’s sundered between the renegade Speaker Astrid – who’s your mother’s old school friend from Yngvild – and the new Listener in the Pale. Falkreath is actively dangerous for you, because Siddgeir and Dengeir each have their reasons to want you dead. Orsinium’s power is limited, but Tarlak will help you as he can.”

“I appreciate the assistance, but I’m going to the College of Winterhold for a spell before returning home. Tullius might protect me from a Whispers sanction, but they’ll expect something for my journeys. Aren and Ervine will tell my mother to piss in the wind.”

“The Arch-Mage and the Master Wizard have other concerns,” Catriona noted dryly. “For now, serve Tullius’ will in Hjaalmarch, the Pale and Winterhold. It will be good training for what is to come.”

Calla shivered. “That doesn’t bode well.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Catriona agreed. “But I have faith in you.”

The Hagraven placed her hands together, smiling slightly. “So you can Conjure Dremora now? I remember when I had to coax you into calling forth a Familiar-“


	9. The Liberation of the Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and corpse desecration with mentions of cannibalism, genocide, war crimes, slavery and imprisonment.

Thongvor settled down on the Mournful Throne as the few remaining Nord officials of Igmund’s court clustered around like sheep searching for the shepherd. He’d spared Raerek because the man _was_ a Talos worshipper and it showed a tendency for mercy that might bend the knee of the other Nord landowners in the Hold. The Hold guard – aside from the contingent who fled with Argis the Bulwark a few days ago – had been his for years. It was a pity about Yngvar and Atar, his chief lieutenants, but Talos surely welcomed the pair to Sovngarde with open arms. Once Red-Shoal and the Stormsword’s reinforcements arrived, he could pry the few Imperial loyalists and the damned Thalmor from Calcelmo’s museum and scour the hills for the Forsworn to be killed or put to work as was most useful.

His first decree, the new Jarl of the Reach mused as his Cyrod steward – a Talos worshipper who fled Bruma – presented the circlet that had graced Igmund’s head was to forbid the Reachfolk from holding office or property until they were properly civilised. Look at how Ainethach, thought the model of cooperation, had turned on the Nords after being refused Thaneship. Kill all the oldsters, put the adults to work in the mines, and train the children up to assume their rightful place as servants to the Nords who’d been given this land by holy Talos centuries ago.

_I could slaughter them, but the gods despise waste,_ he reflected, putting the circlet on his head. _Talos made use of those others thought unusable; I will do the same._

When one of the loyalist guard rode into Markarth and spoke of the host assembling at Karthwasten, Thongvor wasn’t particularly concerned even after the discovery that Rikke and the escaped Madanach had joined forces under Ainethach as a compromise candidate for the Reach. “What can a few Legionaries and ragged Forsworn do to the walls we hold now?” he assured his court. “We will outlast them. We have supplies for years and a source of water. Sigdrifa and Ulfric will grind them to paste against our walls.”

“I hope you’re right,” said one of the courtiers dubiously. “I’ve heard that the Stormsword’s daughter from her first marriage has joined them as a battlemage and she claims descent from the Daedric Prince of Madness.”

“Aye, she can summon Dremora with the click of her fingers,” agreed another courtier. “One wrenched open the gates to Cidhna Mine and that’s how Madanach escaped.”

“Sigdrifa has no daughter and whoever spreads this vile rumour will be guilty of treason,” Thongvor told them firmly. “We have Talos on our side. We will prevail.”

He was still confident when the horde set up camp outside Markarth. To show them their likely fate, he ordered the heads of every Reach criminal executed in the city over the past six months thrown over the walls. “So shall follow the heads of Madanach and his ilk, plus the traitors who support him!” he roared from the battlements.

The compact brunette who called herself Calla – blatantly marked with Daedric script in the unholy styles of the Cyrod necromancers called the Whispers and that of the Reach – used magic to respond with the head of Kottir Red-Shoal. To add insult to injury, she rode Thongvor’s own gift to the Stormcloak commander. “So shall follow the heads of Thongvor Silver-Blood and his ilk, plus the Shieldbitch and the Loud-Mouth!”

Thongvor sneered. “I will burn you as a witch.”

“Better men than you have tried and failed, for I am Calla, daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword and Rustem Aurelius, granddaughter of Arius Aurelius and Farrah bint Setareh al-Dragonstar on my father’s side, Catriona mac Fereda of Lost Valley and Dengeir of Falkreath on my mother’s, great-granddaughter of Julius Martin Aurelius and Aria Carvain on my father’s side… and great-great-granddaughter of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar, who became the Avatar of Akatosh and the Madgoddess respectively.” Unholy purple-black light formed around her fists as a pair of Dremora mages flanked her. “The Dremora call me Heart-Taker, Thongvor. What shall I be named in the laments of the Stormcloaks when my storm has done breaking your tyranny in a land that belongs not to you?”

“You lie!” Thongvor turned to the archers. “Kill that blasphemous whore!”

“Are you _insane_?” retorted Hogni Red-Arm. “She killed every Falmer in Nchuand-Zel and picked her teeth with dwarven ingots!”

“She’s got the gods’ favour, she has, for they love their own children,” agreed Lisbet, another community leader.

Thongvor drew his sword to cut down Hogni but found his hand burned by a Dremora mage’s firebolt.

“A pardon for any man who delivers the heads of Thongvor Silver-Blood and his chief supporters to Jarl Ainethach by sunset,” Madanach announced with relish. “For he is the rightful Ard Ri of the Reach too by battle-right. I’m not one to put my pride and power above the needs of our people. Would that Igmund and Thongvor had been the same.”

Hogni, adept with a knife, drew his dagger first and Thongvor realised in horror that he’d been betrayed from the start. He closed his eyes and prepared to die bravely, to see himself in Sovngarde.

Waking up in a hellscape of purple fire and twisted creatures was only the beginning of his torment for he realised that his brother was there to greet him.

…

Eola and the other Namirans had done their work well in undermining Thongvor’s rule from the start. They’d smuggled old Bothela, young Muiri and a couple of Argis’ cousins from the city, supplied the Imperial loyalists trapped in Calcelmo’s museum and laboratory with grain and water, and butchered a couple of the Silver-Bloods’ more competent allies including that damned Orc who’d taken pleasure in tormenting Cidhna’s prisoners. Now the High Priestess threw open the gate with a toothy smile and presented Thongvor’s head to the new Jarl. Ainethach decided not to enquire as to the rest of his corpse.

He sat down on the Mournful Throne and held up his hand to silence the crowd. Rhiada, Ildene, Donnel and Thongvor’s Cyrod steward stood nervously to the side, expecting hard deaths for working in the Treasury House. Ainethach spoke first to assure them.

“Those who laboured honestly for the Silver-Bloods will not be punished unless they wrought misery upon the people of the Reach. Rhiada, Ildene, Donnel – you are free to go. It is my hope you’ll consider joining my staff, as we have a shortage of clerks and administrators, but if you wish to go into exile I’ll give you a half-year’s wages and free passage.”

Nepos the Nose, the chief Forsworn agent (and Thongvor’s overseer) laughed. “Only Rhiada wasn’t an agent of Madanach’s in that damned house. Who do you think killed Beitild and alerted us to Thongvor’s plans?”

“I should make you Steward, except you’d enjoy the job far too much,” Ainethach said dryly. “I’m making you the treasurer of the Hold.”

“Better make his coat of arms a fox then, because it’ll be running the henhouse,” Madanach said cheerfully. “What of the Cyrod?”

“I won’t kill him, but it is my hope he answers the Imperial questioners honestly, because he may yet face treason charges on their end,” the new Jarl said with a sigh.

Rhiada cried out in relief and her husband, a handsome young man with noble tattoos, took her hand and embraced her closely. Ainethach was relieved to see Calla smiling in relief at the sight of them.

“My second decree is to make the Reach faith legal again… with certain modifications and caveats. Human sacrifice is illegal under Imperial law and the practice of funereal cannibalism will be changed to the western style of ploughing ashes into fields and eating the crops that remain.” He held up a hand again as a muttering passed through the crowd. “The Lady of the Cycle hasn’t struck down the western hill-clans for this adaptation yet. All things change – it is the law of Kyne and Hircine, after all.”

“What about Briarhearts?” asked one of the Hags.

“Anyone who wishes to become a Briarheart must come forth with their Matriarch and register themselves as wholly willing,” Ainethach answered. “The same with any Hag who wishes Ascension. I know it’s terribly bureaucratic and all, but there will be no more Petras or Suibhnes or Corocs. No petty kinglets as defeated Red Eagle in his time. One authority, one Ard Ri – Reachperson and Nord in turn. To that end…”

He took a drink from his cup of water before continuing. “I hereby announce the betrothal of Kaie mac Fereda of Lost Valley and Argis mac Cormac of Stone Halls, to rule jointly as Ban-Ard-Ri and Jarl. If the ruler is a Nord, they must wed a Reachperson; if a Reachperson, a Nord. Much Nord blood runs in our veins and many live among us in peace.”

Hours of bitching and bickering, everyone from Madanach to Hadvar putting in their two septims, to produce this hasty compromise. Kaie and Argis knew each other, respected each other; they would be friends, which might be better for co-rulers than passionate love. Ainethach knew he was only a caretaker ruler and he was content with that.

“The other Jarls won’t be thrilled to see the Mournful Throne being shared,” pointed out Perth.

“That’s why Argis will represent us in the Moot,” Kaie answered. “The Nord will be Jarl, the Reachperson Ard-Ri. As the gods are balanced in the left and right hands, so too shall be the Mournful Throne.”

“All gods allowed by the Empire are legal, including most of the Left-Hand Gods. Only Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal and Talos are forbidden to be worshipped,” Ainethach continued. “I don’t think I need to explain why those three are banned.”

He clasped his hands together. “Perth is the Thane of Soljund’s Sinkhole and Old Hroldan. Enmon will be taking over as Thane of Karthwasten. Respective leaders of the redoubts and strongholds, once they have given their allegiance, will hold similar rank within those recognised territories. Madanach will command the Hold’s military forces and Ragnar will become my Steward. All other court officials shall remain the same.”

It sounded all nice and neat, but he wondered if future generations would learn of the compromises, moral and otherwise, that led this. Would they know the path to the Reach’s freedom began when a tyrant framed a sorceress and had her thrown into prison? Perhaps. He should have some special archives for the court, so that future rulers weren’t blinded by myth and legend.

In the days following the siege, Calla had quietly left the Reach with her horse and saddlebags full of valuable soul gems and other magical artefacts, including a Matriarch’s ritual staff. The revelation of her Septim ancestry had sent shockwaves throughout the Hold that would ripple out to the lowlands and even beyond. But she had assured Rikke and the other Imperials she only sought arcane power. Rumour had it she would be handling the problem of Ancano at the College.

Ainethach put her from his mind for the moment. She would emerge again, no doubt, for the god-blooded rarely had quiet lives. But her work in the Reach was done for now and he appreciated that she chose to leave rather than linger. Myths and legends were uncomfortable things to have around, after all.

He sat back in the Mournful Throne as the first petitioner approached. The crisis was resolved in his Hold. Now he just had to hold it (pun intended) until the Empire solved the crisis in the other parts of Skyrim.

The Jarl was dead. Long live the Jarl.


	10. A Quiet Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Done and dusted with this volume, folks!
> 
> …

Calla left the distinctive mare with its golden coat and silver mane outside the inn in the small village on the border of Haafingar and the Reach after dark, before crossing the bridge back to Hjaalmarch and taking the roads that led to the boggy ice-cold Hold. She knew what Tullius wanted and her grandmother had advised, but the path would be her choice alone. She needed time to decompress after the events in the Reach.

A passing Khajiit caravan was pleased to take all the soul gems and scrolls for a set of simple Nord-style mage robes in the drab ochre and brown of a Journeymage, sheened by a Destruction enchantment. Calla camped by the river that night and burned her old robes, the hair she’d cut off and anything that could be used to track her. Until she could find a face-sculptor, there wasn’t much she could do about her face, but a smear of yellow ochre across the nose and cheeks would lend a more greenish cast to her blue-green eyes. Just another wandering Journeymage on her way to the College.

Anonymity would be fleeting but she would make use of every moment. Gratitude would have curdled into resentment in the Reach if she’d stayed. Better she move on and be remembered well before Ainethach began to wonder if the descendant of Talos would consider surpassing his achievements… Then there was the inevitable vengeance of her mother. Sigdrifa had been thwarted spectacularly and all of Skyrim knew her for a liar. She’d not take that well.

As she had done in the Legion, Calla rolled herself up in her bedroll and went to sleep, protected by runes. Hjaalmarch was known to be home to a priest of Tu’whacca – learning how her father’s people handled Conjuration would be interesting…

Time moved, as it ever did, and the day of reckoning drew near.


End file.
